







• ■ " * 













y%,i^ '^v^ •■•-*- 





















o , . " G^ ^ *.-r;v^ • ^ 






.^ /. 



•n^o^ 








A 




^' \.^^'^/ ^.^^^!^\.^' %^^'%o^ V^^*y "^^^^-^^o^ ^^< 





p ^ 








A 








I ^ '^^ A 



A' 




-^^^^ 








"^ 





* ^'?-' 




4 o 
■ ' * " "^^ -s.*^ 






^ <(, ► „ ^^ „ • "^ A*" *- -^^^^^ 



A^ ^o *.-r.T^- A 






^ ,«t^^^ 



^. 




A' 



4 o 





* ^^ 




< -^v^ o"* 



A J^ 
G^ ^ .^-^^^.^ ^ 

o 







-^^ » 




•: "W* 




<4.^ 



• L*^'. V 



^ "o^o- ^^^ 




A 




<!\ 'o-A" A^ "^o *vTlT*' A 







•^(f- 



^oV 










V 





5* A 






-^^o^ 




A 



\ 






■4^ 







' ^ " ^ 



t^o^ 




o » o ■■ O, 





^0^ ^^-^'.^^ V^ ,^-, -^c^ A^\s'«, ^> -0^ 



















.-l°o 




/ .^>.^% V^ ,%^^;, -^_/ 




O^ ' . « 5 



.^' 






'^0^ 



A<=> 




"oV 




^ -^-0^ f 



4 o 




\->f^-/ %-^/ V^T.-y^ % 




^0 




\ ^^A^ 

'<'\^ 








.^ 








o V 





,-J^ 











^o v 




0^ o-^.^-^o^ ^-^^ 



^^0^ 
























• ocrv^iV...^'' . vJ 
















<!•. 




^oV 







.-S.^ . 







.5>- 



o5 °^ '^'^ 







'^0'^ 








.0 c° " ° * O 

^ V 



.^ 



.•J^' 









G^ -^^ ^.^^-T,' A 

0° ."^J4^I'. °o 




o ^ 



.-^-^ *. 















^°-^<^. 




•n^o^ 










O' <^^ 



POEMS 



BY 



DOBSON, LOCKER 



PRAED 




CCPYRISHT IS92 BY FREDERICK A.STOKES COMPANY 



POEMS 




BY 



DOBSON, LOCKER 



AND 



PRAED 

; 

With facsimiles of luater-color paintings by 

MAUD HUMPHREY 

. . / . . 

Together with tlhtstrations in black-and-white by 

various artists 




--V ; 15 1892 ) 



NEW YORK 

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 
MDCCCXCII 






Copyright, i8g2, 

By Frederick A. Stokes Company ^ 

New York, 




CONTENTS 



The Old Sedan Chair 

A " Nice " Correspondent . 

A Letjer of Advice 

The Sundial 

Dorothy .... 

My Neighbour Rose 

A Garden Lyric 

Gertrude's Glove 

The Belle of the Ball-room 

The Ladies of St. James's . 

A Song of the Four Seasons 

At Her Window 

Rotten Row . . . , 

Loulou and Hkr Cat . 

Our Ball 



Dobson 


. 7 


Locker 


8 


r7'aed 


. lO 


Dobson 


IS 


Dobson 


• 17 


Locker 


18 


Locker 


. 20 


Locker 


22 


Praed 


• 23 


Dobson. 


29 


Dobson 


. 30 


Locker 


32 


Locker 


• 33 


Locker 


34 


Praed 


• . 35 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

The Milkmaid Dobsoii . . -39 

Beauty and Time Dobso7i . . 40 

Arcady Locker . . .40 

The Pilgrims of Pall Mall . . . Locker . . 41 

St. George's, Hanover Square . . . Locker . . .42 

The Vicar Praed . . 43 

Tu OUOQUE Dobson . . -49 

My Mistress's Boots Locker . . 51 

The Old Cradle Locker . . .52 

Childhood and His Visitors . . . Praed . . 54 

My Little Cousins Praed . . .56 

Une Marquise Dobson . . 61 

Good-Night, Babette Dobson . . .64 

Our Photographs Locker . . 66 

To My Grandmother Locker . . .66 

Sketch of a Young Lady Five Months Old Praed . . 68 

School and Schoolfellows .... Praed . . .70 



N, ^;' / 




:jr\ 




POEMS BY 

DoBSON, Locker, and Praed. 



THE OLD SEDAN CHAIR. 

What's not destroy d by Time's devouring hand? 
Where's Troy — and whereas the Maypole in the Strand? 

— Bramston's "Art of Politics." 

It stands in the stable yard, under the See, — here came the bearing straps; here 

eaves, were the holes 

Propped up by a broomstick, and covered For the poles of the bearers — when once 

with leaves. there were poles ; 

It once was the pride of the gay and the It was cushioned with silk, it was wadded 

fair, with hair, — 

But now 'tis a ruin, that old Sedan As the birds have discovered, — that old 

chair! Sedan chair. 

It is battered and tattered, — it little "Where's Troy ?" says the poet ! Look, — 

avails under the seat 

That once it was lacquered, and glistened Is a nest with four eggs, — 'tis the favored 

with nails, retreat 

For its leather is cracked into lozenge and Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I 

square, — dare swear. 

Like a canvas by Wilkie, — that old Sedan Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan 

chair! chair! 



8 POEMS BV DOBSON, LOCKER, AND PRAED. 

And yet — can't you fancy a face in the It has waited by portals where Garrick 

frame has played ; 

Of the window, — some high-headed dam- It has waited by Heidegger's "Grand 

sel or dame, Masquerade"; 

Be-patched and be-powdered, just set by For my Lady Codille, for my Lady 

the stair, Bellair, 

While they raise up the lid of that old It has waited, — and waited, that old 

Sedan chair? Sedan chair! 

Can't you fancy Sir Plume, as beside her Oh, the scandals it knows! Oh, the tales 

he stands, it could tell 

With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of 

hands, Belle, — 

With his cinnamon coat, with his laced Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely 

solitaire, more rare !) 

As he lifts her out light from that old Of Fete-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan 

Sedan chair? chair! 

Then it swings away slowly. Ah, many "■Hen! qitaiitmn miitata," I say as I 

a league go. 
It has trotted 'twixt sturdy-legged Ter- It deserves better fate than a stable yard, 

ence and Teague ; though I 

Stout fellows — but prone, on a question We must furbish it up, and dispatch it, — 

of fare, "With Care," — 

To brandish the poles of that old Sedan To a Fine-Art Museum — that old Sedan 

chair! chair! 

Austin Dobsoii. 



A "NICE" CORRESPONDENT. 

" 'jywre are plenty of roses " {tlie pniriarch speaks) 
" A/as not for me, on your lips and yotir cheeks ; 
Fair maiden rose-laden enotigh and to spare, 
Sparc, spare me that rose that you 'vear in your Jiair." 

The glow and the glory are plighted I'm alone, for the others have flitted 

To darkness, for evening is come; To dine with a neighbour at Kew: 

The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted. Alone, but I'm not to be pitied — 

The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb. I'm thinking of you ! 



A " NICE " CORRESPONDENT. 




"I'm thinking of vou." 

I wish you were here ! Were I duller 
Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear; 

I am drest in your favourite colour — 
Dear Fred, how I wish you were here ! 

I am wearing my lazuli necklace, 
The necklace you fasten'd askew ! 

Was there ever so rude or so reckless 
A Darling as you? 

I want you to come and pass sentence 
On two or three books with a plot ; 
Of course you know "Janet's Repen- 
tance?" 
I am reading Sir ]]^avcrlcy Scott. 
That story of Edgar and Lucy, 

How thrilling, romantic, and true! 
The Master (his bride zvas a goosey !) 
Reminds me of you. 

They tell me Cockaigne has been crowning 
A Poet whose garland endures; — 



It was you that first told me of Browning,- — 
That stupid old Browning of yours! 

His vogue and his verve are alarming, 
I'm anxious to give him his due, 

But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming 
A Poet as you ! 

I heard how you shot at The Beeches, 

I saw how you rode Chanticleer, 
I have read the report of your speeches. 

And echo'd the echoing cheer: 
There's a whisper of hearts you are 
breaking, 
Dear Fred, I believe it, I do! 
Small marvel that Folly is making 
Her Idol of you ! 

Alas for the World, and its dearly 
Bought triumph, its fugitive bliss; 

Sometimes I half wish I were merely 
A plain or a penniless Miss; 

But, perhaps, one is best with "a measure 
Of pelf," and I'm not sorry, too, 

That I'm pretty, because it's a pleasure, 
M}^ Darling, to you ! 

Your whim is for frolic and fashion. 

Your taste is for letters and art; 
This rhyme is the commonplace passion 
That glows in a fond woman's heart: 
Lay it by in some sacred deposit 
For relics — we all have a few! 
Love, some day they'll print it, because it 
Was written to You. 

Frederiek Locker. 



A LETTER OF ADVICE. 



FROM MISS MEDORA TREVILIAX, 
VAVASOUR, 

You tell me you're promised a lover, 

My own Araminta, next week; 
Why cannot my fancy discover 

The hue of his coat and his cheek? 
Alas ! if he look like another, 

A vicar, a banker, a beau. 
Be deaf to your father and mother, 

My own Araminta, say "No!" 

Miss Lane, at her Temple of Fashion, 

Taught us both how to sing and to 
speak. 
And we loved one another with passion. 

Before we had been there a week : 
You gave me a ring for a token ; 

I wear it wherever I go ; 
I gave you a chain, — is it broken? 

My own Araminta, say "No !" 

Oh, think of our favourite cottage. 

And think of our dear "Lalla Rookh !" 
How we shared with the milkmaids their 
pottage. 

And drank of the stream from the 
brook ; 
How fondly our loving lips falter'd 

"What further can grandeur bestow?" 
My heart is the same; — is yours alter'd? 

My own Araminta, say "No!" 

Remember the thrilling romances 
We read on the bank in the glen ; 

Remember the suitors our fancies 
Would picture for both of us then. 



AT PADUA, TO MISS ARAMINTA 
IiV LONDON. 

They wore the red cross on their shoulder,. 

They had vanquish'd and pardon'd 
their foe — 
Sweet friend, are you wiser or colder? 

My own Araminta, say "No!" 

You know, when Lord Rigmarole's car- 
riage 

Drove off with your cousin Justine, 
You wept, dearest girl, at the marriage. 

And whisper'd, "How base she has 
been !" 
You said you were sure it would kill you,. 

If ever your husband look'd so ; 
And you will not apostatize — will you? 

My own Araminta, say "No!" 

When I heard I was going abroad, love, 

I thought I was going to die; 
We walk'd arm in arm to the road, love, 

We look'd arm in arm to the sky; 
And I said, "When a foreign postillion 

Has hurried me off to the Po, 
Forget not Medora Trevilian : 

My own Araminta, say 'No!' " 

We parted ! but sympathy's fetters 

Reach far over valley and hill ; 
I muse o'er your exquisite letters. 

And feel that your heart is mine still; 
And he who would share it with me, love, — 

The richest of treasures below, — 
If he's not what Orlando should be, love,. 

My own Araminta, say "No!" 



A LETTER OF ADVICE. 



II 




" Remembeh the suitors our fanxies 
Would picture . . ." 



If he wears a top-boot in his wooing, 

If he comes to you riding a cob, 
If he talks of his baking or brewing, 

If he puts up his feet on the hob, 
If he ever drinks port after dinner. 

If his brow or his breeding is low, 
If he calls himself " Thompson " or 
"Skinner," 

My own Araminta, say "No!" 

If he studies the news in the papers 
While you are preparing the tea. 



If he talks of the damps or the vapours 
While moonlight lies soft on the sea. 

If he's sleepy, while 3'ou are capricious, 
If he has not a musical "Oh!" 

If he docs not call Werthcr delicious. 
My own Araminta, say "No!" 

If he ever sets foot in the City 

Among the stockbrokers and Jews, 

If he has not a heart full of pity. 

If he don't stand six feet in his 
shoes. 



12 



POEMS BY DOBSON, LOCKER, AND PRAED. 




If his lips are not red- 
der than roses, 
If his hands are 
not whiter than 
snow, 
If he has not the 
model of noses, — 
My own Araminta, 
say "No !" 

If he speaks of a tax 
or a duty, 
If he does not look 
grand on his 
knees, 
If he's blind to a landscape of beauty, 

Hills, valleys, rocks, waters, and trees, 
If he dotes not on desolate towers, 
If he likes not to hear the blasts blow, 



' If he knows not the laN' 
guage of flowers." 



If he knows not the language of flowers, 
My own Araminta, say "No!" 

He must walk- — like a god of old story 

Come down from the home of his rest; 
He must smile — like the sun in his glory 

On the buds he loves ever the best; 
And oh ! from its ivory portal 

Like music his soft speech must flow! 
If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal, 

My own Araminta, say "No!" 

Don't listen to tales of his bounty. 

Don't hear what they say of his birth, 
Don't look at his seat in the county. 

Don't calculate what he is worth ; 
But give him a theme to write verse on^ 

And see if he turns out his toe; 
If he's only an excellent person, 

My own Araminta, say "No!" 

Wiiitlirop M. P?'aed, 



** BETWIXT THE PATHS A DAINTY BEAUTY STEPT/ 
Painted by Maud Humphrey. 




V 






THE SUNDIAL. 

'TiS an old dial, dark Avith many a stain ; And round her train the tiger-lilies swayed, 

In summer crowned with drifting or- Like courtiers bowing till the queen be 

chard bloom, gone. 
Tricked in the autumn with the yellow 

rain, She leaned upon the slab a little while. 

And white in winter like a marble tomb ; Then drew a jewelled pencil from her 

zone. 

And round about its gray, time-eaten c -uui a *.i • -ti r i- -i 

'^ -^ ' Scribbled a somethmg with a frolic smile, 

Folded, inscribed, and niched it in the 

Lean letters speak — a worn and shat- . 

^ stone. 

tered row : 

I AM A SHADE: A SHADOW TOO ARTE The shade slipped on, no swifter than 

THOU: the snail; 

I MARKE THE TIME : SAVE, GOSSIP, There came a second lady to the place, 

DOSr THOU SOE. Dove-eyed, dove-robed, and something 

Here would the ringdoves linger, head to ^^^" ^"^ pale— 

1 , . An inner beauty shining from her face. 



And here the snail a silver course 
would run, 



She, as if listless with a lonely love. 

Straying among the alleys with a book,-r 

Beating old Time; and here the peacock tj ■ ^ u u ,. 4.1J4-1, -i- 

° '^ Herrick or Herbert, — watched the circling 



spread 

His gold-green glory, shutting out the 
sun. 



dove, 
And spied the tiny letter in the nook. 



The tardy shade moved forward to the Then, like to one who confirmation found 

noon ; Of some dread secret half-accounted 

Betwixt the paths a dainty Beauty stept, '^''"^' 

That swung a flower, and, smiling, hummed ^^^o knew what hands and hearts the let- 

a tune, — - ter bound, 

Before whose feet a barking spaniel ^""^ argued loving commerce 'twixt the 

leapt. two, 

O'er her blue dress an endless blossom She bent her fair young forehead on the 

strayed ; stone ; 

About her tendril curls the sunlight The dark shade gloomed an instant on 

shone ; her head ; 



i6 



POEMS BY UOBSON, LOCKER, AND PRAED. 



And 'twixt her taper-fingers pearled and 
shone 
The single tear that tear-worn eyes will 
shed. 

The shade slipped onward to the falling 
gloom ; 
There came a soldier gallant in her 
stead, 
Swinging a beaver with a swaling plume, 
A ribboned love-lock rippling from his 
head ; 

Blue-eyed, frank-faced, with clear and 

open brow, 

Scar-seamed a little, as the women love : 

So kindly fronted that you marvelled how 

The frequent sword-hilt had so frayed 

his glove ; 

Who switched at Psyche plunging in the 
sun ; 
Uncrowned three lilies with a back- 
ward swinge ; 



And standing somewhat widely, like to one 
More used to "Boot and Saddle" than 



As courtiers do, but gentleman withal, 
Took out the note; held it as one who 
feared 
The fragile thing he held would slip and 
fall, 
Read and re-read, pulling his tawny 
beard ; 

Kissed it, I think, and hid it in his breast ; 

Laughed softly in a flattered, happj^way, 
Arranged the broidered baldrick on his 
chest. 

And sauntered past, singing a roundelay. 

The shade crept forward through the 
dying glow ; 
There came no more nor dame nor 
cavalier; 
But for a little time the brass will show 
A small gray spot — the record of a tear. 
Austin Dobsott. 




' The shade crept korwakd through the 
dying glow." 



DOROTHY. 



A REVERIE SUGGESTED BY THE NAME UPON A PANE. 

How not? She loved, may be, per- 
fume, 
Soft textures, lace, a half-lit room ; — 
Perchance too candidly preferred 
"Clarissa" to a gossip's word; 
And, for the rest, would seem to be 
Or proud, or dull — this Dorothy. 




y^ 



,fe 



She then must once 

have looked, as I 
Look now, across the 

level rye, — 
Past Church and Manor- 
House, and seen, 
As now I see, the village green. 
The bridge, and Walton's river — she 
Whose old-world name was "Dorothy." 

The swallows must have twittered, too, 
Above her head ; the roses blew 
Below, no doubt,— and, sure, the South 
Crept up the wall and kissed her mouth, — 
That wistful mouth, which comes to 

me 
Linked with her name of Dorothy. 

What was she like? I picture her 
Unmeet for uncouth worshipper; 
Soft, — pensive, — far too subtly 

graced 
To suit the blunt bucolic taste, 
Whose crude perception could 

but see 
"Ma'am Fine-airs" in Miss 

Dorothy. 




"Fond dreams of unbound harmony." 



POEMS BY DOBSON, LOCKER, AND PRAED. 



Poor child, with heart the down-Hned nest 
Of warmest instincts unconfest. 
Soft callow things that vaguely felt 
The breeze caress, the sunlight melt; 
But yet, by some obscure decree 
Unwinged from birth ; — poor Dorothy ! 

Not less I dream her mute desire 

To acred churl and booby squire, 

Now pale, with timorous eyes that filled 

At "twice-told tales" of foxes killed ; — 

Now trembling when slow tongues grew 

free 
'Twixt sport, and port — and Dorothy ! 



'Twas then she'd seek this nook, and find 
Its evening landscape balmy — kind ; 
And here, where still her gentle name 
Lives on the old green glass, would frame 
Fond dreams of unfound harmony 
'Twixt heart and heart. Poor Dorothy ! 

l'envoi. 

These last I spoke. Then Florence said. 
Below me: "Dreams? Delusions, Fred!" 
Next with a pause, — she bent the while 
Over a rose, with roguish smile — 
"But how disgusted, sir, you'll be 
To hear I scrawled that 'Dorothy.'" 

Austin Dobson. 




MY NEIGHBOUR ROSE. 



Though walls but thin our hearths divide. 
We're strangers, dwelling side by side; — 
How gaily all your days must glide 

Unvex'd by labour! 
I've seen you weep, and could have wept; 
I've heard you sing (and might have slept !) 
Sometimes I hear your chimney swept, 

My Charming Neighbour! 



Your pets are mine. Pray what may ail 
The pup, once eloquent of tail? 
I wonder why your nightingale 

Is mute at sunset. 
Your puss, demure and pensive, seems 
Too fat to mouse. Much she esteems 
Yon sunny wall, and, dozing, dreams 

Of mice she once ate. 



MY NEIGHBOUR ROSE. 



19 



Our tastes agree. I dote upon 
Frail jars, turquoise, and celadon, 
The Wedding March of Mendelssohn, 

And Penscroso. 
When sorely tempted to purloin 
Your Pieta of Marc Antoine, 
Fair virtue doth fair play enjoin, 

Fair Virtuoso ! 

At times an Ariel, cruel-kind, 

Will kiss my lips, and stir your blind. 

And whisper low, "She hides behind ; 

Thou art not lonely." 
The tricksy sprite would erst assist 
At hush'd Verona's moonlight 

tryst ;— 
Sweet Capulet, thou wert not kiss'd 

By light winds only. 

I miss the simple days of yore, 
When two long braids of hair you wore 
And Cliat Botte was wonder'd o'er. 

In corner cosy. 
But gaze not back for tales like those: 
It's all in order, I suppose; 
The Bud is now a blooming RoSE, — 

A rosy-posy 1 

Indeed, farewell to bygone years; 
How wonderful the change appears; 
For curates now, and cavaliers, 

In turn perplex you : 
The last are birds of feather gay, 
Who swear the first are birds of prey ;- 
I'd scare them all had I my way, 

But that might vex you. 

Sometimes I've envied, it is true. 
That Hero, joyous twenty-two. 



Who sent bouquets and billets doux, 

And wore a sabre. 
The Rogue ! how close his arm he wound 
About Her waist, who never frown'd. 
He loves you, Child. Now, is he bound 

To love my Neighbour? 

The bells are ringing. As is meet, 
White favours fascinate the street, 




The Bud is now a blooming Rose.' 



Sweet faces greet me, rueful-sweet 

'Twixt tears and laughter: 
They crowd the door to see her go, 
The bliss of one brings man}^ woe ; — 
Ay, kiss the Bride, and I will throw 
The Old Shoe after. 

What change in one short afternoon ; 
My own dear Neighbour gone, — so soon! 
Is yon pale orb her honey-moon 

Slow rising hither? 
Oh, lad}', Avan and marvellous! 
How often have we communed thus! 
Sweet memory shall dwell with us. 

And J03' go with her. 

Fj'cderick Locker. 



A GARDEN LYRIC. 



We have loiter'd and laugh'd in the flow- The breeze was in love with th.e darling 



ery croft, 
We have met under wintry skies; 
Her voice is the dearest voice, and soft 

Is the light in her gentle eyes; 
It is sweet in the silent woods, among 

Gay crowds, or in any place 
To hear her voice, to gaze on her young 
Confiding face. 



Child, 

As it moved her curls. 

She show'd me her ferns and woodbine 
sprays, 

Foxglove and jasmine stars, 
A mist of blue in the beds, a blaze 

Of red in the celadon jars; 




'And a sunbeam kiss'd her mouth." 



For ever may roses divinely blow, And velvety bees in convolvulus bells, 

And wine-dark pansies charm And roses of bountiful June — 

By the prim box path where I felt the Oh, who would think their summer spells 



glow 
Of her dimpled, trusting arm, 
And the sweep of her silk as she turn'd 
and smiled 
A smile as pure as her pearls; 



Could die so soon ! 

'"or a glad song came from the milking 
shed, 
On a wind of the summer south, 



A GARDEN LYRIC. 



21 



And the green was golden above her 
head, , 
And a sunbeam kiss'd her mouth; 
Sweet were the lips where that sunbeam 
dwelt ; 
And the wings of Time were fleet 



And the odorous limes were dim above 
As we leant on a drooping bough; 

And the darkling air was a breath of love, 
And a witching thrush sang "Now !" 

For the sun dropt low, and the twilight grew 
As we listen'd, and sigh'd, and leant; 



As I gazed; and neither spoke, for we That day was the sweetest day — and we 
felt knew 

Life was so sweet ! What the sweetness meant. 

Frederick Locker. 




GERTRUDE'S GLOVE. 

Elle avait au bout des ses iiianches 
Ufie paire de mains si blanches ! 




'Where Gerty rests a pensive cheek.'' 



Slips of a kidskin deftly sewn, 
A scent as through her garden blown, 
The tender hue that clothes her dove, 
All these, and this is Gerty's Glove. 

A Glove but lately dofft, for look — 

It keeps the happy shape it took 

Warm from her touch ! What gave the 

glow? 
And where's the Mould that shaped it so? 



It clasp'd the hand, so pure, so sleek, 
Where Gerty rests a pensive cheek ; 
The hand that when the light wind 

stirs. 
Reproves those laughing locks of hers. 

You Fingers four, you little Thumb! 
Were I but you, in days to come 
I'd clasp, and kiss,^ — I'd keep her. Go! 
And tell her that I told you so. 

FiTdcrick Locker. 




THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM. 



Years — years ago, — ere yet my dreams 

Had been of being wise or witty,- — ■ 
Ere I had done with writing themes, 

Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty ; — 
Years — years ago, — while all my joy 

Was in my fowling-piece and filly, — 
In short, while I was yet a boy, 

I fell in love with Laura Lily. 

I saw her at the County Ball : 

There, when the sounds of flute and 
fiddle 
Gave signal sweet in that old hall 

Of hands across and down the middle, 
Hers was the subtlest spell by far 

Of all that set young hearts romancing; 
She was our queen, our rose, our star; 

And then she danced^ — O Heaven, her 
dancing ! 

Dark was her hair, her hand was white; 

Her voice was exquisitely tender; 
Her eyes were full of liquid light; 

I never saw a waist so slender! 



Her every look, her every smile, 
Shot right and left a score of arrows; 
I thought 'twas Venus from her isle, 
And wonder'd where she'd left her spar- 
rows. 

She talk'd, — of politics or prayers, — 

Or Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's 
sonnets, — 
Of danglers — or of dancing bears. 

Of battles — or the last new bonnets, 
By candlelight, at twelve o'clock, 

To me it matter'd not a tittk; 
If those bright lips had quoted Locke, 

I might have thought they murmur'd 
Little. 

Through sunny May, through sultry June, 

I loved her with a love eternal ; 
I spoke her praises to the moon, 

I wrote them to the Sunday J oiirnaL 
My mother laugh'd ; I soon found out 

That ancient ladies have no feeling: 
My father frown'd ; but how should gout 

See any happiness in kneeling? 



24 



POEMS BY DOBSON, LOCKER, AND PRAED. 



She was the daughter of a Dean, 

Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic; 
She had one brother, just thirteen, 

Whose colour was extremely hectic; 
Her grandmother for many a year 

Had fed the parish with her bounty; 
Her second cousin was a peer, 

And Lord Lieutenant of the County. 

But titles, and the three per cents.. 

And mortgages, and great relations, 
And India bonds, and tithes, and rents. 
Oh, what are they to love's sensa- 
tions? 
Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering 
locks — • 
Such wealth, such honours, Cupid 
chooses; 
He cares as little for the Stocks 

As Baron Rothschild for the Muses. 



^-^ 




' She botanized." 



She sketch'd ; the vale, the wood, the beach 

Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading: 
She botanized ; I envied each 

Young blossom in her boudoir fading; 
She warbled Handel ; it was grand ; 

She made the Catalani jealous: 
She touch'd the organ ; I could stand 

For hours and hours to blow the 
bellows. 

She kept an album, too, at home, 

Well fill'd with all an album's glories: 
Paintings of butterflies, and Rome, 

Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories; 
Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo; 

Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter ; 
And autographs ot Prin. e Leboo, 

And recipes for elder- .vater. 

And she was flatter'd, worshipp'd, bored; 

Her steps were watch'd, her dress was 
noted ; 
Her poodle dog was quite adored; 

He-r sayings were extremely quoted; 
She laugh'd, and every heart was glad. 

As if the taxes were abolish'd ; 
She frown'd, and every look was sad, 

As if the Opera were demolish'd. 

She smiled on many, just for fun,— 

I knew that there was nothing in it ; 
I was the first — the only one 

Her heart had thought of for a minute. — 
I knew it, for she told me so. 

In phrase which was divinely moulded ; 
She wrote a charming hand,— and oh! 

How sweetly all her notes were folded! 



THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM. 



25 



Our love was like most other loves; — 

A little glow, a little shiver, 
A rose-bud, and a pair of gloves. 

And "Fly not yet" — upon the river; 
Some jealousy of some one's heir. 

Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, 
A miniature, a lock of hair, 

The usual vows, — and then we parted. 



We parted; months and years roll'd by; 

We met again four summers after: 
Our parting was all sob and sigh ; 

Our meeting was all mirth and laughter : 
For in my heart's most secret cell 

There had been many other lodgers; 
And she was not the ball-room's Belle, 

But only — Mrs. Something Rogers ! 
Winthrop M. Praed. 



THEY SIT ALL NIGHT AT OMBRE, 
WITH CANDLES ALL OF WAX." 

Painted by Maud Htimphrey. 




.r--i 



.,«#.. 





THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S. 



A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN. 



The ladies of St. James's 

Go swinging to the play; 
Their footmen run before them, 

With a "Stand by! Clear the way!" 
ButPhyllida,my Phyl- 
lida! 
She takes her buck- 
led shoon, 
When we go out a- 
courting 
Beneath the harvest 
moon. 

The ladies of St. 
James's 
Wear satin on their 
backs ; 
They sit all night at 
Ombre, 
With candles all of 
wax; 
But Phyllida, my Phyl- 
lida! 
She dons her russet 
gown 
And runs to gather 
May dew 
Before the world is 
down. 

The ladies of St. James's, 

They are so fine and fair 
You'd think a box of essences 

Was broken in the air: 




"And runs to gather May dew 
Before the world is down." 



But Phyllida, my Phyllida! 

The breath of heath and furze, 
When breezes blow at morning, 

Is scarce so fresh as hers. 



The ladies of St. 
James's, 
They're painted to 
the eyes ; 
Their white it stays 
forever. 
Their red it never 
dies; 
But Phyllida, my Phyl- 
lida ! 
Her color comes 
and goes ; 
It trembles to a 
lily, 
It wavers to a rose. 



The ladies of St. 
James's 
With "Mercy!" and 
with "Lud !" 
They season all their 
speeches 
(They come of noble 
blood) ; 
But Phyllida, my Phyllida! 

Her shy and simple words 
Are sweet as, after rain-drops, 
The music of the birds. 



30 



POEMS BY DOBSON, LOCKER, AND PRAED. 




•^^ 



" Sweet as, after rain-dkops. 
The music of the birds." 



The ladies of St. James's 

They have their fits and freaks; 
They smile on you — for seconds; 

They frown on you — for weeks • 



But Phylhda, my Phyllida ! 

Come either storm or shine, 
From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide 

Is always true — and mine. 

My Phyllida! my Phyllida! 

I care not though they heap 
The hearts of all St. James's 

And give me all to keep; 
I care not whose the beauties 

Of all the world may be, 
For Phyllida — for Phyllida 

Is all the world to me ! 

Austin Dobson. 



A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS. 



When Spring comes laughing 

By vale and hill, 
By wind-flower walking 

And daffodil,— 
Sing stars of morning, 

Sing morning skies, 
Sing blue of speedwell, 

And my Love's eyes. 




" When Spring comes laughing, 




'And gay birds gossip." 



When comes the Summer, 

Full leaved and strong, 
And gay birds gossip 

The orchard long, — 
Sing hid, sweet honey 

That no bee sips; 
Sing red, red roses, 

A^nd my Love's lips. 



A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS. 



31 



When Autumn scatters 

The leaves again, 
And piled sheaves bury 

The broad-wheeled wain, — 
Sing flutes of harvest 

Where men rejoice ; 
Sing rounds of reapers, 

And my Love's voice. 




"When autumn bCAXTiiRS 
The leaves again." 



But when comes Winter 

With hail and storm, 
And red fire roaring, 

And ingle warm, — 
Sing first sad going 

Of friends taht part; 
Then sing glad meeting 

And my Love's heart. 

Austin Dobson, 




" But when comes Winter." 



AT HER WINDOW. 



Ah, Minstrel, how slraiige is 

The carol you sing! 
Let Psyche, who ranges 

The garden of spring, 
Remember the changes 

December will bnng. 



Beating Heart ! we come again 
Where my Love reposes: 

This is Mabel's window pane; 
These are Mabel's roses. 

Is she nested? Does she kneel 

In the twilight stilly, 
Lily clad from throat to heel, 

She, my virgin Lily? 

Soon the wan, the wistful stars, 

Fading, will forsake her; 
Elves of light, on beamy bars. 

Whisper then, and wake her. 

Let this friendly pebble plead 

At her flowery grating; 
If she hear me will she heed? 

Mabel, I am ivaiting. 

Mabel will be deck'd anon. 
Zoned in bride's apparel; 

Happy zone ! Oh, hark to yon 
Passion-shaken carol ! 

Sing thy song, thou tranced thrush, 
Pipe thy best, thy clearest ; — 



Hush, her lattice moves, O hush- 
Dearest Mabel!- — dearest. . . 




"Mabel, I am waiting." 

Frederick Locker. 



ROTTEN ROW. 



I HOPE I'm fond of much that's good, 
As well as much that's gay; 

I'd like the country if I could; 
I love the Park in May : 

And when I ride in Rotten Row, 

I wonder why they call'd it so. 

A lively scene on turf and road ; 

The crowd is bravely drest ; 
The Ladies Mile has overflow'd, 

The chairs are in request ; 
The nimble air, so soft, so clear, 
Can hardly stir a ringlet here. 

I'll halt beneath those pleasant trees, — 

And drop my bridle-rein, 
And, quite alone, indulge at ease 

The philosophic vein : 
I'll moralize on all I see — 
Yes, it was all arranged for me ! 

Forsooth, and on a livelier spot 

The sunbeam never shines. 
Fair ladies here can talk and trot 

With statesmen and divines: 
Could I have chosen, I'd have been 
A Duke, a Beauty, or a Dean. 

What grooms ! What gallant gentle- 
men ! 

What well-appointed hacks ! 
What glory in their pace, and then 

What Beauty on their backs! 
My Pegasus would never flag 
If weighted as my Lady's nag. 



But where is now the courtly troop 

That once rode laughing by? 
I miss the curls of Cantilupe, 

The laugh of Lady Di. 
They all could laugh from night to morn, 
And Time has laugh'd them all to scorn. 

I then could frolic in the van 
With dukes and dandy earls ; 

Then I was thought a nice young man 
By rather nice young girls! 

I've half a mind to join Miss Browne, 

And try one canter up and down. 




" I've half a mind to join Miss Browne." 

Ah, no — I'll linger here awhile, 
And dream of days of yore; 

For me bright eyes have lost the smile, 
The sunny smile they wore:- — 

Perhaps they say, what I'll allow, 

That I'm not quite so handsome now. 
Frederick Locker. 



LOULOU AND HER CAT. 



You sliake your saucy curis, and vow 
I build no airy castles now ; 
You smile, and you are thinking too, — 
Hes nothing else oti earth to do. 



Good pastry is vended 

In Cite Fadette ; 
Maison Pons can make splendid 

Brioche and galcttc. 

JSTsieu Pons is so fat that 
He's laid on the shelf; 

Madame had a Cat that 
Was fat as herself. 

Long hair, soft as satin, 

A musical purr, 
'Gainst the window she'd flatten 

Her delicate fur. 

I drove Lou to see what 
Our neighbours were at, 

Li rapture, cried she, "What 
An exquisite Cat ! 

"What whiskers ! She's purring 
All over. Regale 



Our eyes, Pitss, by stirring 
Thy feathery tail I 

*'M'sic2i Pons, will you sell her?" 
"Ma femnie est sortie, 

Your ofTer I'll tell her; 
But — will she?" says he. 

Yet Pojis was persuaded 
To part with the prize; 

(Our bargain was aided, 
My Lou, by 5'our eyes!) 

From his Idgitinic save him — 

My spouse I prefer, 
For I warrant his gave him 

Un mativais quart dWictire. 

I am giving a pleasant 

Grimalkin to Lou, 
— Ah, Puss, what a present 

I'm giving to you ! 

Frederick Locker. 




OUR BALL. 




"The romance, since it's over, 

'TWERE idle, or worse, TO RECALL." 

You'll come to our Ball ; — -since we parted, 

I've thought of you more than I'll say; 
Indeed, I was half broken-hearted 

For a week, when they took you away. 
Fond fancy brought back to my slumbers 

Our walks on the Ness and the Den, 
And echo'd the musical numbers 

Which you used to sing to me then. 
I know the romance, since it's over, 

'Twere idle, or worse, to recall ; 
I Tcnow you're a terrible rover; 

But, Clarence, you'll come to our Ball! 

It's only a year, since, at College, 

You put on your cap and your gown; 
But, Clarence, you're grown out of knowl- 
edge. 
And changed from the spur to the 
crown : 
The voice that was best when it falter'd 
Is fuller and firmer in tone, 



And the smile that should never have 
alter'd — 

Dear Clarence — it is not your own; 
Your cravat is badly selected ; 

Your coat don't become you at all; 
And why is your hair so neglected? 

You must have it curl'd for our Ball. 

I've often been out upon Haldon 

To look for a covey with pup ; 
I've often been over to Shaldon, 

To see how your boat is laid up: 
In spite of the terrors of Aunty, 

I've ridden the filly you broke; 
And I've studied your sweet little Dante 

In the shade of your favourite oak; 
When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence, 

I sat in your love of a shawl ; 
And I'll wear what }'ou brought me from 
Florence, 

Perhaps, if you'll come to our Ball. 

You'll find us all changed since you van- 
ish'd ; 

We've set up a National School; 
And waltzing is utterly banish'd. 

And Ellen has married a fool ; 
The Major is going to travel, 

Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout. 
The walk is laid down with fresh gravel, 

Papa is laid up with the gout ; 
And Jane has gone on with her easels, 

And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul; 
And Fanny is sick with the measles, — 

And I'll tell you the rest at the Ball. 



36 



POEMS BY DOBSON, LOCKER, AND PRAED. 



You'll meet all your Beauties: the 
Lily, 

And the Fairy of "VVillowbrook Farm, 
And Lucy, who made me so silly 

At Dawlish, by taking your arm ; 
Miss Manners, who always abused you 

For talking so much about Hock, 
And her sister, who often amused you 

By raving of rebels and Rock; 
And something which surely would 
answer, 

An heiress quite fresh from Bengal ; 
So, though you were seldom a dancer. 

You'll dance, just for once, at our 
Ball. 

But out on the World ! from the flowers 

It shuts out the sunshine of truth; 
It blights the green leaves in the 
bowers, 

It makes an old age of our youth ; 
And the flow of our feeling, once in it. 

Like a streamlet beginning to freeze, 
Though it cannot turn ice in a minute. 

Grows harder by sudden degrees. 
Time treads o'er the graves of affection ; 

Sweet honey is turn'd into gall; 
Perhaps you have no recollection 

That ever you danced at our Ball! 



You once could be pleased with our bal- 
lads, — 

To-day you have critical ears; 
You once could be charmed with our 
salads — 

Alas! you've been dining with Peers; 
You trifled and flirted with many, — ■ 

You've forgotten the when and the how ; 
There was one you liked better than any, — 

Perhaps you've forgotten her now. 
But of those you remember most newly, 

Of those who delight or enthrall. 
None love you a quarter so truly 

As some you will find at our Ball. 

They tell me you've many who flatter, 

Because of your wit and your song: 
They tell me — and what does it matter? — 

You like to be praised by the throng : 
They tell me you're shadow'd with laurel: 

They tell me you're loved by a Blue: 
They tell me you're sadly immoral — 

Dear Clarence, that cannot be true! 
But to me you are still what I found you, 

Before you grew clever and tall ; 
And you'll think of the spell that once 
bound you ; 

And you'll come — won't you come? — to 
our Ball! 

Winthrop M. Praed. 



"SHE COMES WITH TRIPPING PACE." 

Painted by Maud Humphrey. 







( 
V 









THE MILKMAID. 



A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE. 



Across the grass I see her pass ; 

She comes with tripping pace, — 
A maid I know, — and March winds 
blow 

Her hair across her face ; — 
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! 

Dolly shall be mine, 
Before the spray is white with May, 

Or blooms the eglantine. 

The March winds blow. I watch 
her go : 

Her eye is brown and clear; 
Her cheek is brown, and soft as down 

(To those who see it near!) — 
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! 

Dolly shall be mine, 
Before the spray is white with May, 

Or blooms the eglantine. 

What has she not that they have got, — 
The dames that walk in silk! 

If she undo her kerchief blue, 
Her neck is white as milk. 



With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! 

Dolly shall be mine, 
Before the spray is white with May, 

Or blooms the eglantine. 

Let those who will be proud and 
chill ! 

For me, from June to June, 
My Dolly's words are sweet as curds — 

Her laugh is like a tune; — 
With a hey, Dolly ! ho, Dolly ! 

Dolly shall be mine, 
Before the spray is white with May, 

Or blooms the eglantine. 

Break, break to hear, O crocus- 
spear ! 

O tall Lent lilies, flame! 
There'll be a bride at Easter-tide, 

And Dolly is her name. 
With a hey, Dolly ! ho, Dolly ! 

Dolly shall be mine. 
Before the spray is white with May, 

Or blooms the elgantine. 

Atistin Dobson. 




The eglantine.' 



BEAUTY AND TIME. 




The full Rose waxed in the warm June 

air, 
And she spread, and spread, till her heart 

lay bare ; 
And she laughed once more as she heard 

his tread — 
"He is older now. He will soon be 

dead !" 

But the breeze of the morning blew, and 

found 

That the leaves of the blown Rose strewed 

the ground ; 

And he came at noon, that Gardener 

old. 

The Rose in the garden slipped her bud, And he raked them softly under the 

And she laughed in the pride of her mould. 

youthful blood, 

As she thought of the Gardener standing And I ivovc the thing to a random 

by — rliymc, 

"He is old — so old ! And he soon will For the Rose is Beauty, the Gardener 

die !" Time. 

Austin Dobson. 



" The full Rose waxed in the warm 
June air." 



ARCADY. 
Lively Shepherdess. Happy Shepherd. 

Now mind But if it rains: then how? and where? 
He'll call on you to-morrow at eleven, ^"d when? 

And beg that you will dine with us at And how about the green umbrella then? 

seven ■ 
If, when He calls, you see that He has got Lively Shepherdess. 

His green umbrella, then you'll know Then He '11 be Wet, that's all, for if I 

He'll not don't 

Be going to the House, and you'll decline. Choose He should take it, why, of course! 
But if He hasn't it, you'll come and dine. you goose! he won't. 

Frederiek Locker. 



THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL. 



My little Friend, so small, so neat, 
Whom years ago I used to meet 

In Pall Mall daily, 
How cheerily you tript away 
To work, it might have been to play, 

You tript so gaily. 

And Time trips too ! This moral means 
You then were midway in the teens 

That I was crowning; 
We never spoke, but when I smiled 
At morn or eve, I know, dear Child, 

You were not frowning. 

Each morning that we met, I think 
One sentiment us two did link, 

Not joy, nor sorrow; 
And then at eve, experience-taught, 
Our hearts were lighter for the thought, — 

We meet to-morrow! 

And you were poor, so poor! and why? 
How kind to come, it was for my 

Especial grace meant ! 
Had you a chamber near the stars, — 
A bird, — some treasured plants in jars, 

About your casement? 

I often wander up and down. 

When morning bathes the silent town 

In dewy glory ; 
Perhaps, unwitting, I have heard 
Your thrilling-toned canary-bird 

From, that third story. 



I've seen some change since last we 

met — 
A patient little Seamstress yet, 

On small wage striving, 
Are you, if love such luck allows, 
Some little fellow's lucky spouse? 

Is Baby thriving? 




"Some little fellow's lucky spouse." 



42 



POEMS BY DOBSON, LOCKER, AND PRAED. 



My heart grows chill ! Can Soul like 

thine, 
Weary of this dear World of mine. 

Have loosed its fetter, 
To find a world, whose promised 

bliss 
Is better than the best of this? — 

And is it better? 

Sometimes to Pall Mall I repair. 
And see the damsels passing there; 
But if I try to. . . 



To get one glance, they look discreet, 
As though they'd someone else to 

meet ; 

As have not /too? 

Yet still I often think upon 

Our many meetings, come and gone, 

July — December! 
Now let us make a tryst, and when. 
Dear little Soul, we meet again 
In some more kindly sphere, why then 

Thy friend remember. 

Frederick Locker. 



ST. GEORGE'S, HANOVER SQUARE. 




" Beautiful Bride! So meek in thy splendour." 



She pass'd up the aisle on the arm of her 

sire, 
A delicate lady in bridal attire. 

Fair emblem of virgin simplicity ; 
Half London was there, and, my word, 

there were few 
That stood by the altar, or hid in a 
pew. 
But envied Lord Nigel's felicity. 



Beautiful Bride ! So meek in thy splendour, 
So frank in thy love, and its trusting sur- 
render, 
Departing you leave us the town dim ! 
May happiness wing to thy bower, unsought. 
And may Nigel, esteeming his bliss as he 
ought. 
Prove worthy thy worship, — confound 
him ! 

Frederick Locker. 



THE VICAR. 



Some years ago, ere time and taste 

Had turned our parish topsy-turvy, 
Wlien Darnel Park was Darnel Waste, 

And roads as little known as scurvy, 
The man who lost his way, between 

St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket, 
Was always shown across the green. 

And gfuided to the Parson's wicket. 




"And guided to the Parson's wicket.' 



Back flew the bolt of lissom lath ; 

Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle. 
Led the lorn traveller up the path. 

Through clean-clipt rows of box and 
myrtle ; 
And Don and Sancho, Tramp and 
Tray, 
Upon the parlour steps collected. 
Wagged all their tails, and seem'd to 
say — 
"Our master knows you — you're ex- 
pected." 

Uprose the Reverend Dr. Brown, 

Uprose the Doctor's winsome marrow; 

The lady laid her knitting down, 

Her husband clasped his ponderous 
Barrow ; 



Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed. 
Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner. 

He found a stable for his steed. 

And welcome for himself, and dinner. 

If, when he reached his journey's end, 

And warm'd himself in Court or Col- 
lege, 
He had not gain'd an honest friend 

And twenty curious scraps of knowl- 
edge, 
If he departed as he came, 

With no new light on love and liquor, — 
Good sooth, the traveller was to blame, 

And not the Vicarage, or the Vicar. 

His talk was like a stream, which runs 

With rapid change from rocks to roses; 
It slipt from politics to puns. 

It pass'd from Mahomet to Moses; 
Beginning with the laws which keep 

The planets in their radiant courses, 
And ending with some precept deep 

For dressing eels, or shoeing horses. 

He was a shrewd and sound Divine, 

Of loud Dissent the mortal terror; 
And when, by dint of page and line. 

He 'stablish'd Truth, or startled Error, 
The Baptist found him far too deep; 

The Deist sigh'd Avith saving sorrow; 
And the lean Levite went to sleep, 

And dream'd of tasting pork to-morrow. 

His sermon never said or show'd 

That earth is foul, that Heaven is 
gracious 



44 



POEMS BY DOBSON, LOCKER, AND PRAED. 



Without refreshment on the road 

From Jerome, or from Athanasius: 
And sure a righteous zeal inspired 

The hand and head that penn'd and 
plann'd them. 
For all who understood ad- 
mired, 
And some who did not 
understand them. 

He wrote, too, in a quiet way, 
Small treatises, and smaller 
verses, 
And sage remarks on chalk 
and clay, 
And hints to noble Lords 
and nurses ; 
True histories of last year's 
ghost. 
Lines to a ringlet or a tur- 
ban. 
And trifles for the Morning 
Post, 
And nothings for Sylvanus U 

He did not think all mischief fair, 

Although he had a knack of joking; 
He did not make himself a bear 

Although he had a taste for smok- 
ing; 
And when religious sects ran mad, 

He held, in spite of all his learning, 
That if a man's belief is bad, 

It will not be improved by burning. 

And he was kind, and loved to sit 
Li the low hut or garnish'd cottage, 



And praise the farmer's homely wit. 

And share the widow's homelier pot- 
tage: 
At his approach complaint grew mild ; 
And when his hand unbarr'd the 
shutter, 
The clammy lips of fever 
smiled 
The welcome which they 
could not utter. 

He always had a tale for me 
Of Julius Caesar, or of 
Venus; 
From him I learnt the rule 
of three, 
Cat's-cradle, leap-frog, and 
Qu(^ gcmis : 

I used to singe his 

powder'd wig, 

To steal the staff 

/ he put such 

^^Kr^KC ■ trust in, 

And make the 

puppy dance 
a jig. 
When he began 
to quote Au- 




" Like a stream which runs 

With rapid change from Alack the change! 

ROCKS TO ROSES." 

m vam I look 
For haunts in which my boyhood trifled, 

The level lawn, the trickling brook, 
The trees I climb'd, the beds I rifled: 

The church is larger than before; 
You reach it by a carriage entry ; 



THE VICAR. 



45 



It holds three hundred people more, 
And pews are fitted up for gentry. 

Sit in the Vicar's seat ; you'll hear 
The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, 

Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear, 
Whose phrase is very Ciceronian. 



Where is the old man laid? — look 
down, 
And construe on the slab before 
you, 
' 'Hicjacet Gvlielmvs Brown, 
Vir nulla non donandus lauru." 

Winthrop M. Praed. 




NO, I SHOULD DOUBTLESS FIND FLIRTATION FITTER, 
IF I WERE YOU!" 

Painted by Maud Humphrey. 






-^ 






'/ 





TU QUOQUE. 

AN IDYLL IN THE CONSERVATORY. 

" — romprojis-nous, 
Ou ne romprons-voHs pas ? " 

— Le Depit Amoureux. 

Nellie. Frank. 

If I were you, when ladies at the play, If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer 
sir, 



Beckon and nod, a melodrama through, 
I would not turn abstractedly away, sir, 
If I were you ! 

Frank. 
If I were you, when persons I affected 
Wait for three hours to take me down 
to Kew, 
I would, at least, pretend I recollected. 
If I were you ! 

Nellie. 
If I were you, when ladies are so lavish. 
Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two. 



Whiff of the best — the mildest "honey 

dew," 
I would not dance with smoke-consuming 

Puffer, 
If I were you ! 

Nellie. 
If I were you, I would not, sir, be bitter. 
Even to write the Cynical Review. 

Frank. 
No, I should doubtless find flirtation 
fitter. 
If I were you ! 

Nellie. 



I would not dance with odious Miss Really! You would? Why, Frank, 
M'Tavish, you're quite delightful, — 

If I were you ! Hot as Othello, and as black of hue; 



50 POEMS BY DOBSpN, LOCKER, AND PRAED. 

Borrow my fan. I would not look so Ah, you are strong — I would not then be 

frightful, ■ cruel. 

If I were you ! If I were you ! 

^RANX. ^^^^^^^ 

"It is the cause." I mean your diaper- r^ ■, ^ i-i > r i- , 

■^ ^ One does not like one s feelmgs to be 

one is j ui. j 

doubted, — 

Bringing some well curled juvenile. 

Adieu ! Frank, 

I shall retire. I'd spare that poor Adonis, Qne does not like one's friends to mis- 

If I were you ! construe,— 
Nellie. 
Go, if you will. At once ! And by ex- 



press, sir! 



Nellie. 
If I confess that I a wee bit pouted? — 



Frank. 
I should admit that I was pigzie, too. 



Where shall it be? To China — or Peru? 
Go. I should leave inquirers my ad- 
dress, sir, 

^i^^^^^yo^'- Nellie. 

Frank. Ask me to dance. I'd say no more 

No, — I remain. To stay and fight a duel about it. 

Seems, on the whole, the proper thing If I were you! 

to do — (Waltz — Exeunt^ 

Austin Dobson. 




MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS. 

" She has dancing eyes and mby lips, 
Delightful boots — and atvay she skips." 



They nearly strike me dumb,— 
I tremble when they come 

Pit-a-pat ; 
This palpitation means 
These Boots are Geraldine's — 

Think of that ! 



The faery stitching gleams 
On the sides, and in the seams, 

And reveals 
That the Pixies were the wags 
Who tipt these funny tags, 

And these heels. 



Oh, where did hunter win 
So delicate a skin 

For her feet? 
You lucky little kid. 
You perish'd, so you did, 

For my Sweet. 



What soles to charm an elf? — 
Had Crusoe, sick of self, 

Chanced to view 
One printed near the tide, 
Oh, how hard he would have tried 

For the two ! 



52 



POEMS BY DOBSON, LOCKER, AND PRAED. 



For Gerry's debonair, 
And innocent and fair 

As a rose ; 
She's an Angel in a frock, 
She's an Angel with a clock 

To her hose ! 



Cinderella's lefts and rights 
To Geraldine's were frights: 

And I trow 
The Damsel, deftly shod, 
Has dutifully trod 

Until now. 



The simpletons who squeeze 
Their pretty toes to please 

Mandarins, 
Would positively flinch 
From venturing to pinch 

Geraldine's 



Come, Gerry, since it suits 
Such a pretty Puss (in Boots) 

These to don, 
Set your dainty hand awhile 
On my shoulder, Dear, and Fll 

Put them on. 

Frederick Locker. 



THE OLD CRADLE. 

And this was your Cradle? Why, surely, To hint at an infantile frailty's a 

my Jenny, scandal; 

Such cosy dimensions go clearly to Let bygones be bygones, for somebody 

show knows 

You were an exceedingly small Pica- It was bliss such a Baby to dance and to 

ninny dandle, — ■ 

Some nineteen or twenty short summers Your cheeks were so dimpled, so rosy 

ago. your toes ! 



Your baby days flow'd in a much-troubled Ay, here is your Cradle; and Hope, a 

channel ; bright spirit, 

I see you, as then, in your impotent With Love now is watching beside it, I 

strife, know. 

A tight little bundle of wailing and They guard the wee Nest it was yours to 

flannel, inherit 

Perplex'd with the newly found fardel Some nineteen or twenty short sum- 

of Life. mers ago. 



THE OLD CRADLE. 



53 



It is Hope gilds the future, Love wel- Then smile as your future is smiling, my 

comes it smiling; Jenny; 

Thus wags this old World, therefore I see you, except for those infantine 

stay not to ask, woes, 

"My future bids fair, is my future beguil- Little changed since you were but a small 

ing?" Picaninny — 

If mask'd, still it pleases — then raise Your cheeks were so dimpled, so rosy 

not its mask. . vour toes! 



Is Life a poor coil some would gladly be Ay, here is your Cradle, much, much to 
dofftng? my liking, 
He is riding post-haste who their Though nineteen or twenty long win- 
wrongs will adjust; ters have sped. 
For at most 'tis a footstep from cradle to Hark! As I'm talking there's six o'clock 
coffin — striking, — • 
From a spoonful of pap to a mouthful It is time Jenny's BABY should be in 
of dust. its bed. 

Frederick Locker. 




"It is time Jenny's baby should be in its bed." 



CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS. 





" Upon a bank of blush- 
ing FLOWERS." 



Once on a time, ■ . 
when sunny 
May 

Was kissing up the April showers, 
I saw fair Childhood hard at play 

Upon a bank of blushing flowers: 
Happy — he knew not whence or how, — 
And smiling, — who could choose but 
love him? 
For not more glad than Childhood's brow 
Was the blue Heaven that beam'd above 
him. 

Old Time, in most appalling wrath, 
That valley's green repose invaded; 



The brooks grew dry upon his path, 
The birds were mute, the lilies faded. 

But Time so swiftly wing'd his flight, 
In haste a Grecian tomb to batter, 

That Childhood watch'd his paper kite^ 
And knew just nothing of the matter. 

With curling lip and glancing eye 

Guilt gazed upon the scene a minute; 
But Childhood's glance of purity 

Had such a holy spell within it, 
That the dark demon to the air 

Spread forth again his baffled pinion, 
And hid his envy and despair. 

Self-tortured, in his own dominion. 

Then stepp'd a gloomy phantom up. 

Pale, cypress-crown'd, Night's awful 
daughter 
And proffer'd him a- fearful cup 

Full to the brim of bitter water: 
Poor Childhood bade her tell her name; 

And when the beldame mutter'd — 
"Sorrow," 
He said : "Don't interrupt my game; 

ril taste it, if I must, to-morrow." 

The Muse of Pindus thither came, 

And woo'd him with the softest num- 
bers 
That ever scatter'd wealth and fame 

Upon a youthful poet's slumbers; 
Tho' sweet the music of the lay, 

To Childhood it was all a riddle. 
And "Oh," he cried, "do send away 

That noisy woman with the fiddle!" 



CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS. 



55 



Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball, 

And taught him, with most sage en- 
deavour, 
Why bubbles rise and acorns fall. 

And why no toy may last forever. 
She talk'd of all the wondrous laws 

Which Nature's open book discloses, 
And Childhood, ere she made a pause, 

Was fast asleep among the roses. 



Sleep on, sleep on! Oh! Manhood's 
dreams 

Are all of earthly pain or pleasure. 
Of Glory's toils. Ambition's schemes. 

Of cherish'd love, or hoarded treasure: 
But to the couch where Childhood lies 

A more delicious trance is given, 
Lit up by rays from seraph eyes. 

And glimpses of remember'd Heaven. 

Winthrop M. Praed. 



MY LITTLE COUSINS. 



Laugh on, fair Cousins, for to you 

All life is joyous yet ; 
Your hearts have all things to pursue, 

And nothing to regret ; 
And every flower to you is fair, 

And every month is May ; 
You've not been introduced to 
Care, — • 

Laugh on, laugh on to-day ! 

Old Time will fling his clouds ere 
long 
Upon those sunny eyes; 



If friendship is an empty sound, 

And love an idle dream. 
If mirth, youth's playmate, feels 
fatigue 

Too soon on life's long way, 





fi '-S ^ 





"And every flower 
And every month 

The voice whose every word is song 

Will set itself to sighs ; 
Your quiet slumbers — hopes and fears 

Will chase their rest away: 
To-morrow you'll be shedding tears, — 

Laugh on, laugh on to-day ! 

Oh, yes, if any truth is found 
In the dull schoolman's theme, 



TO YOU IS FAIR : 

IS May." 



At least he'll run with you 
a league ; — 
Laugh on, laugh on to- 
day ! 



Perhaps your eyes may grow more 
bright 

As childhood's hues depart; 
You may be lovelier to the sight 

And dearer to the heart ; 
You may be sinless still, and see 

This earth still green and gay; 
But what you are you will not be: 

Laugh on, laugh on to-day! 



MY LITTLE COUSINS. 



57 



O'er me have many winters crept 

With less of grief than joy; 
But I have learn'd, and toil'd, and wept ; 

I am no more a boy ! 
I've never had the gout, 'tis true; 

My hair is hardly gray ; 
But now I cannot laugh like you: 

Laugh on, laugh on to-day ! 



I used to have as glad a face, 

As shadowless a brow ; 
I once could run as blithe a race 

As you are running now; 
But never mind how I behave! 

Don't interrupt your play; 
And though I look so very grave, 

Laugh on, laugh on to-day ! 

Winthrop M. Praed, 



{( 



YOU ARE JUST A PORCELAIN TRIFLE, 

'BELLE MARQUISE,' 
JUST A THING OF PUFFS AND PATCHES." 

Painted by Maud Htunphrey. 




'^\::^'^' 1 



^^' 








COPYR16HT 1892 BY FREDERICK A.STOKES COMPANY 



UNE MARQUISE. 



A RHYMED MONOLOGUE IN THE LOUVRE. 
"Belle Marquise, vos beaux yeux me font mourir d'atiwur" 

— MOLIERE. 



I. 
As you sit there at your ease, 

O Marquise ! 
And the men flock round your knees 

Thick as bees, 
Mute at every word you utter, 
Servants to your least frill flutter, 

"Belle Illarquise I "■ — ■ 
As you sit there growing prouder. 

And your ringed hands glance and go, 
And your ian's /rou-/ron sounds louder. 

And your "beaux yeux" flash and glow ; — 
Ah, you used them on the Painter, 

As you know. 
For the Sieur Larose spoke fainter, 

Bowing low. 
Thanked Madame and Heaven for Mercy 
That each sitter was not Circe, 
Or at least he told you so ; — • 
Growing proud, I say, and prouder 
To the crowd that come and go, 
Dainty Deity of Powder, 

Fickle Queen of Fop and Beau, 
As you sit where lustres strike you. 

Sure to please. 
Do we love you most or like you, 
"Belle Marquise I " 

II. 

You are fair; oh, yes, we know it 

Well, Marquise ; 
For he swore it, your last poet, 

On his knees; 



And he called all Heaven to witness 
Of his ballad and its fitness, 

"Belle Marquise." — 
You were everything in ^re 
(With exception of severe), — 
You were cruelle and rebelle, — 
With the rest of rhymes as well ; 
You vv'ere " Reine" and "Mere d' Amour''; 

You were " Venus a Cythere" ; 
"Sappho inise en Pojnpadour" ; 

And " Minerve en Parabere" ; 
You had every grace of heaven 

In your most angelic face. 
With the nameless finer leaven 

Lent of blood and courtly race; 
And he added, too, in duty, 
Ninon's wit and Boufflers' beauty; 
And La Valhere's j)/^«;i.' vcloutes 

Followed these ; 
And you liked it, when he said it 

(On his knees), 
And you kept it, and you read it, 

" Belle Marquise ! " 

III. 

Yet with us your toilet graces 

Fail to please, 
And the last of your last faces, 

And your mise; 
For we hold 3'ou just as real, 

"Belle Afarqtiise/" 
As your Bergers and Bergires ; 



62 



POEMS BY DOBSON, LOCKER, AND PRAED. 



lies d'Amour and Batelieres ; 
As yonr pares, and your Versailles, 
Gardens, grottoes, and rocailles 
As your Naiads and your trees; — ■ 
Just as near the old ideal 
Calm and ease. 
As the Venus there, by Coustou, 

That a fan would make quite flighty, 



Not for heart-wounds, but for scratches^ 

O Marquise! 
Just a pinky porcelain trifle, 

''Belle Marquise!''^ 
Wrought in rarest rose-Diibarxy, 
Quick at verbal point and parry, 
Clever, doubtless ; but to marry, 

No, Marquise! 




' As YOUR Naiads and your trees." 



Is to her the gods were used to, — 
Is to grand Greek Aphroditfe, 
Sprung from seas. 
You are just a porcelain trifle, 
'Belle Marquise!" 
Just a thing of puffs and patches, 
Made for madrigals and catches, 



TV. 
For your Cupid, you have clipped him 
Rouged and patched him, nipped and 

snipped him. 
And with chapeati-bras equipped him, 

"Belle Marquise!'''' 
Just to arm" you through your wife-time, 



UNE MARQUISE. 



63 




" Till a fairer face outlive you, 

Or a younger grace shall please." 

And the languors of your life-time, 

"Belle Marquise/" 
Say, to trim your toilet tapers, 
Or, — to twist your hair in papers, 
Or, — to win you from the vapours; — 

As for these, 
You are worth the love they give you, 



Till a fairer face outlive you, 

Or a younger grace shall please; 
Till the coming of the cro\vs' feet, 
. And the backward turn of beaux' feet, 
" Belle Marquise r' — 
Till your frothed-out life's commotion 
Settles down to Ennui s ocean, 
Or a dainty sham devotion, 
"Belle Marquise/" 



No; we neither like nor love you, 

"Belle Marquise/" 
Lesser lights we place above you, — 

Milder merits better please. 
We have passed from Philiosophe-dom. 

Into plainer modern days, — 
Grown contented in our oafdom. 

Giving grace not all the praise; 
And, en partant, Arsino^, — 

Without malice whatsoever, 
We shall counsel to our Chloe 

To be rather good than clever; 
For we find it hard to smother 

Just one little thought, Marquise! 
Wittier perhaps than any other, — 
You were neither Wife nor Mother, 
"Belle Marquise/" 

Austin Dobson. 



GOOD NIGHT, BABETTE." 



" Si vieillesse poiivait ! " 
Scene. — A small neat room. In a high Voltaire chair sits a ivhite-haired old gentleman. 

Monsieur Vieuxbois. Babette. 



M. Vieuxbois {turning qnertilottsly). 
Day of my life ! Where ca7i she get? 
Babette! I say ! Babette '.—Babette! 

Babette {entering hurriedly). 

Coming, M'sieu' ! If M'sieu' speaks 
So loud he won't be well for weeks! 

M. Vieuxbois. 
Where have you been? 

Babette. 

Why, M'sieu' knows; — 



April ! Ville-d'Avray ! 
Rose! 



[a'am'selle 



M. Vieuxbois. 
Ah ! I am old, — and I forget. 
Was the place growing green, Babette? 

Babette. 
But of a greenness! — yes, M'sieu'! 
And then the sky so blue! — so blue! 
And when I dropped my immortelle. 
How the birds sang! 

{Lifting her apron to her eyes?) 
This poor Ma'am'selle! 

M. Vieuxbois. 
You're a good girl, Babette, but she, — 
She was an angel, verily. 
Sometimes I think I see her yet 
Stand smiling by the cabinet; 



And once, I know, she peeped and laughed 
Betwixt the curtains. . . 

Where's the draught? 
{She gives iLim a cup?) 
Now I shall sleep, I think, Babette; 
Sing me your Norman cliansonnette, 

Babette {sings). 
" Once at the A ngebis 
{Ere I zvas dead ), 
Angels all gloriotis 

Came to my bed ; — 
Angels in blue and white 
Crowned on the head." 

M. Vieuxbois {drozusily). 
"She was an angel." . . . "Once she 

laughed." . . 
What, was I dreaming? 

Where's the draught? 

Babette {shoiving the empty ctip). 
The draught, M'sieu'? 

M. Vieuxbois. 

How I forget! 
I am so old! But sing, Babette! 

Babette {sings). 
" One was the friend I left 
Stark in the snow ; 
One was the wife that died 
Long, — long ago ; 



GOOD NIGHT, BABETTE. 



65 




"What, was I dreaming? Where's the draught?" 



One was the Love I lost. . 
How could she know ? " 



One had my father s face ; 

One was a child ; 
All of them bent to me — 

Bent down and smiled ! " 



M. ViEUXBOIS {imirmuring). 

Ah, Paul! ... Old Paul! . . . Eulalie 

too ! (^^^ 's asleep !) 

And Rose. . . . And Oh! "the sky so 
blue!" 

Babette isings). " How I forget !" 

" One had my mother s eyes, "I am so old!" . . , "Good night, Ba- 

Wistful and mild ; bette!" 

Austin Dobson. 



M. ViEUXBOIS {almost inaudibly). 



OUR PHOTOGRAPHS. 



She play'd me false, but that's not why 
I haven't quite forgiven Di, 

Although I've tried: 
This curl was hers, so brown, so bright, 
She gave it me one blissful night, 

And — more beside ! 

Our photographs were group'd together; 
She wore the darling hat and feather 

That I adore ; 
In profile by her side I sat 
Reading my poetry — but that 

She'd heard before. 

Why, after all, Di threw me over 
I never knew, I can't discover. 
And hardly guess; 



May be Smith's lyrics she decided 
Were sweeter than the sweetest I did — = 
I acquiesce. 

A week before their wedding day, 
That Beast was call'd in haste away 

To join the Staff. 
Di gave him then, with tearful mien, 
Her only photograph. I've seen 

That photograph, 

I've seen it in Smith's pocketbook! 
Just think! her hat, her tender look, 

Are now that Brute's! 
Before she gave it, off she cut 
My body, head, and lyrics, but 
She was obliged, the little Slut, 

To leave my boots. 

Frederick Locker^ 



This Relative of mine, 
Was she seventy-and-nine 

When she died? 
By the canvas may be seen 
How she look'd at seventeen, 

As a Bride. 

Beneath a summer tree 
Her maiden reverie 
Has a charm ; 



TO MY GRANDMOTHER. 

(suggested by a picture by MR. ROMNEY.) 

' ' Under the elm a rustic seat 
Was merriest Susan s pet retreat 
To merry-make ." 

Her ringlets are in taste ; 
What an arm ! and what a waist 
For an arm ! 



With her bridal-wreath, bouquet, 
Lace farthingale, and gay 

Falbala, — 
If Romney's touch be true, 
What a lucky dog were you, 

Grandpapa! 



TO MY GRANDMOTHER. 



67 



Her lips are sweet as love ; 

They are parting! Do they move? 

Are they dumb? 
Her eyes are blue, and beam 
Beseechingly, and seem 

To say, "Come !" 

What funny fancy slips 

From at ween these cherry lips? 

Whisper me, 
Fair Sorceress in paint, 
What canon says I mayn't 

Marry thee? 



Her rounded form was lean. 
And her silk was bombazine; 

Well I wot 
With her needles would she sit, 
And for hours would she knit, — 

Would she not? 

Ah, perishable clay! 

Her charms had dropt away 

One by one ; 
But if she heaved a sigh 
With a burthen, it was, "Thy 

Will be done." 



That good-for-nothing Time 
Has a confidence sublime: 

When I first 
Saw this Lady, in my youth, 
Her winters had, forsooth, 

Done their worst. 



In travail, as in tears. 

With the fardel of her 3-'ears 

Overprest, 
In mercy she was borne 
Where the weary and the worn 

Are at rest. 



Her locks, as white as snow. 
Once shamed the swarthy crow: 

By-and-by 
That fowl's avenging sprite 
Set his cruel foot for spite 

Near her eye. 



Oh, if you now are there, 
A lid sweet as once you were. 

Grandmamma, 
This nether world agrees 
You'll all the better please 

Grandpapa. 

Frederick Locker. 



SKETCH OF A YOUNG LADY FIVE MONTHS OLD. 



My pretty, budding, breathing flower, 

Methinks, if I to-morrow 
Could manage, just for half an hour, 

Sir Joshua's brush to borrow, 



I'd paint the fringe that round them lies. 

The fringe of long dark lashes; 
I'd draw with most fastidious care 

One eyebrow, then the other, 



/ 




>.«?v. 



""^ ^-"4 





i»^.' ' 



-5?- 






"When revolving years 
Have made you tall and twenty." 



I might immortalize a few 

Of all the myriad graces 
Which Time, while yet they all are 
new, 

With newer still replaces. 

I'd paint, my child, your deep blue eyes. 
Their quick and earnest flashes; 



And that fair forehead, broad and 
fair. 
The forehead of your mother. 

I'd oft retouch the dimpled cheek 
Where health in sunshine dances; 

And oft the pouting lips, where speak 
A thousand voiceless fancies; 



SKETCH OF A YOUNG LADY FIVE MONTHS OLD. 



69 



And the soft neck would keep me long, 
The neck, more smooth and snowy 

Than ever yet in schoolboy's song 
Had Caroline or Chloe. 

Nor less on those twin rounded arms 

My new-found skill would linger, 
Nor less upon the rosy charms 

Of every tiny finger; 
Nor slight the small feet, little one, 

So prematurely clever 
That, though they neither walk nor 
run, 

I think they'd jump forever. 

But then your odd endearing ways — 
What study e'er could catch them? 

Your aimless gestures, endless plays — • 
What canvas e'er could match them.? 

Your lively leap of merriment. 
Your murmur of petition, 



Your serious silence of content. 
Your laugh of recognition. 

Here were a puzzling toil, indeed. 

For Art's most fine creations! — 
Grow on, sweet baby ; we will need, 

To note your transformations, 
No picture of your form or face, 

Your waking or your sleeping, 
But that which Love shall daily trace, 

And trust to Memory's keeping. 

Hereafter, when revolving years 

Have made you tall and twenty. 
And brought you blended hopes and 
fears. 

And sighs and slaves in plenty. 
May those who w^atch our little saint 

Among her tasks and duties. 
Feel all her virtues hard to paint. 

As now we deem her beauties. 

Winthrop M. Praed. 



SCHOOL AND SCHOOLFELLOWS. 



Twelve years ago I made a mock 

Of filthy trades and trafifics : 
I wonder'd what they meant by stock; 

I wrote delightful sapphics ; 
I knew the streets of Rome and Troy, 

I supp'd with Fates and Furies, — 
Twelve years ago I was a boy, 

A happy boy, at Drury's. 

Twelve years ago ! — how many a thought 

Of faded pains and pleasures 
Those whisper'd syllables have brought 

From Memory's hoarded treasures ! 
The fields, the farms, the bats, the 
books, 

The glories and disgraces. 
The voices of dear friends, the looks 

Of old familiar faces! 

Kind Mater smiles again to me. 

As bright as when we parted ; 
I seem again the frank, the free, 

Stout-Iimb'd, and simple-hearted! 
Pursuing every idle dream, 

And shunning every warning; 
With no hard work but Bovney stream, 

No chill except Long Morning: 

Now stopping Harry Vernon's ball 

That rattled like a rocket ; 
Now hearing Wentworth's "Fourteen 
all!" 

And striking for the pocket ; 
Now feasting on a cheese and flitch, — 

Now drinking from the pewter; 



Now leaping over Chalvey ditch, 
Now laughing at my tutor. 

Where are my friends? I am alone; 

No playmate shares my beaker: 
Some lie beneath the Churchyard stone, 

And some — before the Speaker; 
And some compose a tragedy, 

And some compose a rondo ; 
And some draw swords for liberty. 

And some draw pleas for John Doe. 




"No PLAYMATE SHARES MY BEAKER." 

Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes 

Without the fear of sessions; 
Charles Medlar loathed false quantities, 

As much as false professions; 
Now Mill keeps order in the land, 

A magistrate pedantic ; 
And Medlar's feet repose unscann'd 

Beneath the wide Atlantic. 

Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din, 
Does Dr. Martext's duty ; 



SCHOOL AND SCHOOLFELLOWS. 



71 



And Mullion, with that monstrous 
chin, 

Is married to a Beauty ; 
And Darrell studies, week by week. 

His Mant, and not his Manton ; 
And Ball, who was but poor at Greek, 

Is very rich at Canton. 

And I am eight-and-twenty now ; — 

The world's cold chains have bound 
me ; 
And darker shades are on my brow, 

And sadder scenes around me: 
In Parliament I fill my seat. 

With many other noodles; 
And lay my head in Jermyn Street, 

And sip my hock at Boodle's. 

But often, when the cares of life 
Have set my temples aching. 

When visions haunt me of a wife. 
When duns await my waking, 



When Lady Jane is in a pet, 

Or Hobby in a hurry. 
When Captain Hazard wins a bet, 

Or Beaulieu spoils a curry, — 

For hours and hours I think and talk 

Of each remembered hobby ; 
I long to lounge in Poet's Walk, 

To shiver in the lobby ; 
I wish that I could run away 

From House, and Court, and Levee, 
Where bearded men appear to-day 

Just Eton boys grown heavy, — 

That I could bask in childhood's sun 

And dance o'er childhood's roses. 
And find huge wealth in one pound one. 

Vast wit in broken noses, 
And play Sir Giles at Datchet Lane, 

And call the milkmaids Houris, — 
That I could be a boy again, — • 

A happy boy, — at Drury's. 

Winthrop M. Praed. 



S9 1 0. 9. 



^. 




%^<^ » 







"-.,<^ 



A 



.V**" 
-^^ ^<. 



^. 










."Jv^ 









^ 






^. 







« O . X> •A , y*. 








^ 'o . * " A 
















;^ 



.^' 




c^ 




A" s'. ^-^^ °"° >^^ 



^^-n^ 




^°-^^. V 




■^0^ 




,^ 



<^^ 






, V , o " c ^ <* V . , » "^ x\ ^- 



,0 









-^-0^ 






yJ^S^' ^-^^ A-^*^ .:i°^°'. "-^ 




o 






3.0 -A 




Deacidified using the Bookkeeper proc 
^' Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Jan, 2009 

PreservationTechnologi 

7 „ A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVff 

( 111 Thomson Park Drive 

Cranberry Township, PA 16066 

. 5 *.* /• . f7?4l77q-P111 











> 









: -*,,*' .'^ 





0^ 




RARY BINDING 



DOBBSBROS. V "^j. " ,^ 

O '0.1* A 

AUGUSTINE ^^^^ - "^ K 

;^^ 32084 ^^'^^VJ^* ^ '-^^UM^^* ^ O , >., ^ ^ 






